Tumor
by aoxomoxoa
Summary: Could the greatest affection that Hermione Granger has never known really be all in her head?  Another to file under E for Effed up.   Abandoned for now I'm afraid.
1. Chapter 1

**DISCLAIMER:** I own nuttin' but the plot.

**A/N:** Good luck.

* * *

**LIFE IS A BITCH. **

**AND DEATH IS HER SISTER.**

-lil Wayne

* * *

It tugs at my very heartstrings. Like a fistful of rusty fishhooks embedded deep inside the fibers. Rusted but for the length of time they've been there.

_Bella darling, your future…_

**What of it?**

_Do you ever think on it? Where the choices you'll make will lead you?_

Cissy had looked at me with what I could only call concern. Whether or not it was genuine at the time remains up for debate.

My blasted sister is a viper lying in wait; beautiful on the outside yet still so full of poison.

And her wretched husband! Though she may be a snake, he is but a worm. Spineless. An invertebrate crawling on its stomach through the muck.

**I have chosen my path, dear sister. The Dark Lord's side is where I belong. I will be his most trusted. His last, best lieutenant.**

_The future will destroy you Bellatrix. It will be your undoing._

I would've said the same to her husband.

Now I lie in a state of limbo. Trapped in the in-between.

At first it feels like a pseudo consciousness; like when you first plunge your head beneath the water. Everything is refracted and fuzzy. The surface and it's life giving air a just within your grasp, but if you were to breathe in deep, it'd be your last.

_**NOT MY DAUGHTER YOU BITCH!**_

I'm dead.

Been dead.

Dead.

Cut down by that ginger pig and the legion of mudbloodmongers.

The Dark Lord…what a crock. He was a sham. His arrogance ultimately destroyed us all. And I was too bloody arrogant to see it. Blinded by my own self-fulfilling prophecies.

There's nothing I can do. Not from where I am.

I watch the world rot more than it had when I was alive! A weeping and festering pustule in the ass of the universe.

And I can do nothing but watch. Resurrected, but trapped in a cage.

Doomed to move through the recesses of the mind of the person that I both hate and adore. Witnessing their greatest fears...and their most twisted desires. Both often involving me.

Everyday I learn something new.

The Dark Lord had once spoken of this. Never to fear dying.

Death is not the end, nor is it the beginning...

Oh what a tired cliché.

I am trapped.

I can't speak to her.

I can't defeat her.

Nothing can.

I envy her. She is a part of me, and I'm so touched by her goodness. She makes me feel whole.

And the best part of all…_I_ am a part of _her_…

* * *

But...perhaps I am speaking in circles…allow me to start over.

Hermione has a tumor.

Always fitting to start off with a bang, yes?

Hermione Jean Granger has a tumor.

We often stop and tell each other stories to pass the time. There's something you should know, though you've probably already deduced it for yourself, this isn't a run-of-the-mill illness our heroine suffers from.

She's got a parasite living inside her.

She reminds me of myself when I was her age. Ambitious. Bright. Headstrong. And so easily fooled by a man with a mere shred of charisma.

But this isn't about me...it's about _us_...the connection we share. If I explain where _I_ am at this moment it couldn't possibly make sense…but I digress.

A tumor the size of a sickle right is nestled upon a small patch of her frontal lobe. It had been growing for some time.

Such is what happens when one is exposed to the brilliantly dark magic of horcruxes for oh so long. Poor little creature.

Muggles, I have learned in my post-life, would call something like this _radiation_. A force that permeates skin like water and slowly rips apart the very fabric that makes us all human…such a delicious torture I wish I'd thought of it first.

Radiation. A fitting analogy to describe Ms. Granger's plight. Months on the lam with her two best friends, on a quest to methodically destroy magical objects of evil. Conclude with a classic battle between good and evil. Epic proportions. Explosions. Death. Wanton destruction. Granger fights like a seasoned veteran along with the rest.

I should know…I was there. I dueled the girl and her two piggish friends myself before…

**NOT MY DAUGHTER YOU BITCH!**

And I was sublimated. Molecules scattered to the air.

Victory!

With the Dark Lord vanquished all surely seemed right with the world. Potter survived. The Weasel was fine. Her nearest and dearest were (for the most part) unscathed. A deluge of adulation was rained upon them.

Then a few days later, during a press conference with that vulture Rita Skeeter, Hermione had a headache. (Just a minor nuisance, quickly remedied with the appropriate potion.)

However with time…the headaches became migraines. Night after night.

And once at St. Mungo's she learned the horrible truth: a tumor.

Her muggleborn blood doomed her to a life of weakness against the Dark Arts.

Immunity is imparted from parent to child and Mr. and Mrs. Granger sadly lacked the magical _antibodies_. Further emphasizing the inadequacy of muggleborns, but I suppose it cannot be helped. I'll admit I _have_ wizened a bit in my…age. Trying to let go of some prejudices…

Now this all might sound a little foolish, a simple detail that a witch as bright as Hermione would surely take into consideration. But love and devotion makes fools of us all. Harry and Ron, with their more…_fortified_ blood, would go on to lead (relatively) normal lives.

And an inoperable tumor was discovered mere days after Hermione's 25th birthday party, where she fainted from a particularly intense migraine triggered by a toast from the bloated whale, Molly Weasley.

In fact her head ached quite terribly whenever she was in the presence of the Weasley matriarch; which was most troublesome considering her intimate relationship with Ron.

The migraines never stopped, and the St. Mungo's healers never helped.

Muggle doctors, however, so trigger happy with their ballpoint pens and paper pads…were more than willing to prescribe…

* * *

TBC


	2. Chapter 2

**I HEARD THE VOICE CALLING FROM JUST OUTSIDE THE WELL.**

**SHE SAID: **

_"**YOU FOOL, NOW THAT YOU KNOW YOUR END IS NEAR, **_

_**YOU ALWAYS FALL FOR WHAT YOU DESIRE OR WHAT YOU FEAR!"**_

**-Arcade Fire**

* * *

"The Secretary of the American Embassy is on line two Ms. Granger."

Now here sits (or rather slumps) Hermione Jean Granger, age 30, eyelids twitching like startled moths. Look at her working. She lifts her head off the drool soaked manila folder resting beneath her folded arms. Bangs are plastered to her sleep soaked face.

It has been an exceptionally taxing night, and she isn't in the mood to deal with any loud-mouthed Americans at this hour.

Minutes trickle by as she continues to regard the device with detachment until the tinny voice whines through the speaker a second time.

"Miss Granger…the embassy?"

Blindly her fingers fumble for the telephone and she gurgles into the receiver.

"I'm here! I'm here...Can you take a message please?" She says for what must be the thousandth time. "I haven't got what they're calling for at this minute. I'm completely swamped."

You can almost hear the secretary sweating bullets. "With all due respect Ma'am…they're growing impatient."

"I don't give a rat's ass that they're impatient!" She snaps. "Cover for me!"

Her secretary heaves a beleaguered a sigh, "What shall I tell them this time?"

"Tell them..." Swiftly the 30 year old flits through a small leather book of names and addresses, settling upon a page that reads REFLEXOLOGIST. "I'm due to go in for surgery with my reflexologist this weekend."

"But Ma'am, reflexologists don't..."

"They won't bloody know the difference!" And the small speaker is flung across the room with a violent flick of her wand.

So much anger…so little sleep.

Her temples throb at the sides of her skull. Again. No amount of myo-fascial release will ease the stresses of a nine-to-five.

Working on three hours of sleep, and her fourth straight twelve-hour day, the engine had been running on fumes.

Her campaign for a recently vacated seat on the Wizengamot is in its infant stages, her campaign fund nearly bare save for 'pity' donations from friends. The road is completely uphill. But the popular vote was hers, she was sure of it. For her only competition…is my still living sister Narcissa…and to add insult to injury Andromeda is her campaign manager! My bloody sisters don't deserve this adulation. Both of them are harpies.

Hermione is to doggedly pursue this seat. Blood, sweat and tears would not be enough.

Basic bodily needs such as sleeping and eating take a back seat to the campaign. Nourishment simply comes from any remotely promising message...otherwise it was just from the air.

The Weasel is most likely just walking into their shared flat in London. Tonight, our heroine doesn't expect to leave her office until after the witching hour. The campaign is everything.

Ron is a patient boyfriend yes, but he wants a family. Babies. Children. A family.

A big one.

Darling Hermione was not ready to make that commitment yet.

And to keep the virulent Weasley seed at bay, her secret stash of contraceptives and morning-after pills also served as extra...insurance.

Sure often she hides behind the guise of _love_...but babies, diapers and pregnancy paled in importance to her future.

A future I hope would not destroy her.

That and considering how many babies churned out by the hive Queen Molly, Hermione doubted her uterine capabilities. She wasn't ready to be a breeder cow, especially with a lackluster mate to tend to her spawn.

Although she _did_ occasionally consider the possibility that the maternity factor might earn her some pity votes...but the mere thought of pregnancy would trigger a migraine.

Perish the thought; there just wasn't time. There was never enough time.

Things could've been different. So different.

But they're not.

One day she would be the minister for Magic. One day. How I long for that day. All she needed was to win over the people.

And who wouldn't vote for her?

She _is_ Hermione Granger after all. Member of the light. Best friend of Harry Potter. Gryffindor extraordinaire. In fact the boy-who-lived would surely be the boy-who-died if she hadn't been there for him. He owed her his life (as if Cissy could claim the same!)...and his endorsement, which she was _still_ waiting on. All of it exhausted and angered her at the same time. Though he assured her he'd _get around to it_.

Her eyes are wandering to focus upon anything but paperwork. Encased in a dusty frame on her office wall are several articles from the Prophet all pertaining to the _war_.

**BOY WHO LIVED TRIUMPHS OVER LORD VOLDEMORT.**

**WAR IS OVER! LONDON FINALLY FREE.**

**EVIL VANQUISHED, DUMBLEDORE AVENGED.**

**BELLATRIX LESTRANGE FELLED. LAST OF DEATH EATER THREAT REMOVED.**

In every photo Hermione is obscured. A tree branch here. Ron's waving. Longbottom leaning forward, frame left. Even her actual name is barely mentioned in the articles. _Harry and best friend Ronald Weasley aided often by a "muggleborn friend"_. Reduced to a footnote.

Significance significantly snuffed.

**8:30PM.**

Can't concentrate, can't think. Need clarity. Hermione is sweating now. She reaches for her purse.

Tremors shiver down the length of her right arm as she fumbles through her purse.

And here is where we are…what the muggle doctors have decided is the answer to all of her problems.

Out from the purse she pulls a small snuffbox containing several pills.

Two pills slither down the length of her esophagus without the aid of water. The sinewy muscles of her neck quake with each gulp she takes, ramming the pills down into her stomach. Instantly the tension evaporates. Relief would arrive soon enough.

These pills are her best coworkers, keeping her mind sharp and holding the specter of sleep at bay. Muggle pharmacists proved to be more adept at curing restlessness than any potions master...Snape could eat his heart out for all she cared. The little snuffbox rattled in her hands, the sound an indication of how much of her supply remained.

She was now a part of a new trio, with her two newest friends: amphetamine and diazepam. At first they were simple prescriptions for anxiety...but now it was pure need.

Insomnia plagued dear Hermione for years. And she could pin point the precise moment this torment began. On a creaky wooden floor

_"Let's have a little chat...girl to girl!"_

_Mudblood._

Every night since that night...at least one of her dreams contained an imposing, (yet stunningly gorgeous might I add) figure dressed in tight leather boots and an equally tight leather corset. _Bellatrix Lestrange. _I consider the scars a brand, marking her as mine. Still to this day. She is mine.

In the cage of her dreams a knife would graze Hermione's virginal skin, and the phantom sensation rouses her from sleep in an instant. That night was thirteen years ago. Thirteen years of constantly waking in a cold sweat in the middle of the night, only to struggle to fall back asleep for the remainder of the night. This carried on for years.

Then came her pills. Diphenhydramine, codeine, and zolpidem would tend to her then...not all together at once of course.

Occasionally she heeded the doctor's advice.

Fingernails rake angrily over the scarred flesh of her forearm.

Scratching scratching scratching.

The drug feels like an army of worms wriggling all at once in her veins. Her nails dig harder. She just needed to hold out a few more minutes and then she could continue her work. Her molars go hard at work at the end of her fountain pen. This had to be finished.

Always diligent. Nothing less than the best. The MUD of her scars begins to bloom with bright little droplets of blood.

Brightest witch of her year. The poor girl was doomed from the start.

Plugging away at a roll of parchment, darling Hermione toils at her own days work, obviously cast aside amongst a labyrinth of paper work. It has been all about the campaign, and now it was time to file these forms in triplicate.

Time to do her actual job in her actual cubicle in her actual office that was actually situated at the basement level of the actual Ministry building.

The Weasel and Potter, with the rest of the Aurors didn't have cubicles. The world was their cubicle. Bloody arrogant, the lot of them. I can't even count on both hands how many Aurors have fled in fear at the sight of me. But despite their shortcomings, their exploits where always featured on the front page of the profit. Hermione's paperwork made it into the notices section of the classifieds.

Though that was all going to change.

Time is relative, and a drugged hour blurs by, the parchments finished.

She stands to leave for the evening, resolved as ever.

* * *

The soles of her shoes stick with each step she takes, the paper tear sound of rubber ripping off whisky soaked floors a reminder of the long workday.

"Oy Mione, in a bit early tonight are we?" Comes a thick Irish accent from behind the bar.

"Let it die Seamus, I'm not in the mood." She says, hopping onto a barstool. "Give me my regular."

Seamus Finnegan, proprietor of the _**Gilded Bludger,**_ is used to Hermione stopping in night after night, drowning the toils of the day with straight whiskey.

The rocks glass slides down the wet counter and immediately Hermione throws it back with a flourish of her neck. At first the burn of the liquor smarts, starting her on the slippery slope toward intoxication.

It feels so wonderful. Warmth coming in waves radiating from her spine to the tips of her fingers. Her neurons curl onto themselves with a drunken elation. I myself feel quite warm.

"Ron was here earlier ya know." Seamus says, absently cleaning some glasses. Her head is beginning to hurt again.

Hermione rubs at her eyes as she stares back at her former classmate. A roadmap of veins is painted across the whites of her eyes. "When?"

"Hmm about two hours ago I'd venture. Here with Harry, Gin and some other _girl_."

The Irishman puts an obvious emphasis on the word _girl_ but Hermione simply shrugs. "A girl? That's nice." The drug won't let her care about such trivial things.

Seamus blinks with obvious disbelief. To be honest, I can't believe this either. "You heard me right Mione? A girl..."

"Probably from the Auror office, a recruit maybe? Why should I care?" She gives him the international sign for _top-me-off_ with a raise of her glass. Seamus obliges.

"Well...they was acting awful...affectionate for master and apprentice ya see."

The sides of her skull are nearly split, her migraine is now at full strength. Not a pleasant experience for anyone really…reminds me a bit of Rodolphus' exploits. "I always knew he had...a nurturing spirit…" The alcohol doesn't bring comfort with this next shot. "Can I just have the rest of the bottle? I've been having a night..."

"That's the last of it, but I've got something else that might bite ya just as hard 'Mione." Seamus says dipping behind the bar.

"I've been having a life..." She stretches her arms out across the bar in exasperation as Seamus plops a new bottle of whisky in front her.

And Hermione blanches. Upon the bottle's label staring back at Hermione is a photograph of me…my mug shot from Azkaban in fact. Oh my hair was dreadful that day.

_**Black Madwoman Whisky**_.

"Get that away from me, I've gone more than a decade without having to see her face...I don't need to see that now while I'm trying to enjoy the evening.". Hermione moans. "I'd rather drink myself to vomit, not from the sight of her wretched face." Now now, my face isn't that bad is it darling?

Seamus looks surprised. "Really? Is that what you call this? Could've sworn you're drowning your sorrows...or wallowing in your own self pity."

"Sod off Seamus."

"Give it a try. I hear Lestrange tastes good!" Really! A rumor I'd love to know the origin of!

Not many have had the privilege…

Hermione can only scoff; how juvenile. "I wouldn't know. I remember her being rather unpleasant and...terrifying."

Seamus smiles out of the corner of his mouth. "Don't knock it til you've tried it." He uncorks the bottle and pushes it closer. "On the house."

The Bellatrix in the picture winks back at the bleary eyed Hermione. If it weren't for moving photographs being the norm in a Wizarding pub, she couldn't tell exactly how drunk she was at the moment.

Her fingers grip the neck of the bottle, slick with condensation. Droplets ran down her wrist across my handiwork, now a reddish shade of pink.

The bite of cold liquor as it meets her lips sends a shiver through her spine.

One sip. Breathe.

Another sip. Breathe.

A swig.

A gulp.

Her innards grow warm and she tongues the mouth of the bottle like a lover. For a moment she thinks that the inanimate object kisses her back, but the feeling the alcohol brings is just as good as any recent orgasm. The Bellatrix in the photo can only smile and laugh in utter delight as Hermione nurses the bottle lovingly.

"Oh my…Seamus…This is..._delicious_." The words leak from her lips.

"Told ya...forbidden fruit is _always_ the sweetest!"

* * *

Nights at Seamus pub always end the same, a long walk home.

Hogwarts never imparted on the bright young witch a spell to curb intoxication. Though the route home was second nature at this point, even at this level of stress. Cobblestone streets gave way to narrow paved roads as she hummed her way toward her flat on the far side of the city. It's a bloody miracle her ankles are still in tact.

The hurricane of stress, drugs and alcohol is raging at full force inside her small body. Instinct barely guides her toward her flat. Waves of pain are radiating in her head, the migraine gnawing at her neurons, but she is oblivious to the pain.

She attempts to penetrate the keyhole to her front door several times. The fifth time she gets it in, and with a gentle click she stumbles into the foyer of her flat.

Creak. Creak. Creak.

A chorus of bedsprings is moaning a few feet away through the darkness. Hermione stumbles forward, her purse slipping from her grip to the floor. Her hands fondle the walls as she makes her way toward her bedroom.

The sound of springs also features a duet of soloists; a pair of heavily gasping voices.

"Ooooh...Ahhh...Merlin…Oh!"

Ron. The _Weasel._

It's unmistakable. The sound of infidelity.

Years ago Hermione used to make him hyperventilate like that. Her insides wrapping around his length gripping tighter with each thrust.

Though as time passed the passion betwixt them began to fade; drifting apart to opposite sides of the ocean of their bed sheets. Then came the all of the late shifts at the Ministry, the inane pressure for a plethora of babies and finally the campaign.

From then on Ron would be flaccid whenever Hermione was naked. Her beautiful body not even earning a response.

The door now sits slightly ajar and the coital humidity has seeped into the hallway, fogging the glass of all their photo frames and mirrors. Conveniently, masking all of the memories she has been trying to forget.

The drug still courses through her veins the pupils of her eyes as big as saucers, the dim light reduces the hallway to muted colors and swirls.

Instinctively she fingers the scars on her forearm, and feels the phantom weight of me. Feeling the strong pressure of my thighs against the side of her ribs. She often thinks of me…it's quite endearing.

"Oh Ronald..." A female voice cries out in the throes of an orgasm. Hermione dampens at the sound. She stumbles toward the far hall closet, and fails to grasp the door handle. The cool brass feels like water beneath her fingertips.

At the moment she isn't sure what she's doing, and upon opening the closet an avalanche of papers and boxes spills out onto the floor, and Hermione feels like she is drowning. The fabric of her coat barely registers in her fingertips and she stumbles back a few steps.

The front door beckons her.

Leave, leave, leave.

Just leave Hermione. Leave the Weasel. Leave him. The scum. Filthy ginger scum!

The bedsprings cry out along side a warbling orgasm. Knees buckle and she struggles to right herself, equilibrium having been cast to the winds hours ago.

Bullets of rain pound at the windowpanes, a violent torrential downpour hovering directly above their flat. How apropos.

It's like she's at war, trapped deep within a bunker behind enemy lines. And when the bomb hits atoms and molecules with spread outward, crashing out against the frame that was once herself. Shattering on impact, suddenly malformed.

The tumor in her inside of her head is throbbing.

Hermione Jean Granger. Age 30. Brightest witch of her year. Member of the golden trio.

Has hit bottom.

The air raid siren scream of Ron's unrequited lover stings her eardrums. The door swings open out to the air and slams loudly against the side of their apartment. So hard the front window disintegrates in the angry vibration.

The fucking stops at the sound, but Hermione is past caring.

Everyone else is past caring about her. Surely she's thinking she's all alone. But the drugs console her. I'd console her. My vessel.

Blueprint dreams suddenly ripped to shreds in one instant.

The rain claws at her face as she stumbles, drug addled, onto the pavement of judgmental London streets. Behind her Ron shouts for her to turn around but the sounds slither right through her ears like a puff of cold air.

Wet pavement under street lamps glitters like diamonds thrown across crushed velvet. It's the most beautiful sight she's seen all night. Maybe even her entire life. Across the street a broken beer bottle reflects a small rainbow.

She cannot help but smile at the tangible metaphors surrounding her.

Simplistic beauty manifesting in human detritus. Just like herself and her blood. Though, yes, I know she couldn't help that…

One foot in front of the other she begins to cross the street, the far curb lying across a chasm of humanity. It only seems further with each stride. I find myself growing uncomfortable with this.

"Mione please come back...I'm sorry! Please!" The Weasel is screaming, his skin as red as his hair, veins protruding like worms suffocating in freckled rubber. The bed sheet clutched around his waist can scarcely contain the aftershock of intercourse.

But she doesn't bother to look back. Hermione knows the difference between true sincerity and feigned sincerity.

Suddenly to her left there's a blinding light cutting through the torrents. Her corneas burn through its intensity.

The screech of a car horn. Squealing tires.

Crunch.

Whack.

Smash.

Then blackness and pain.

"HERMIONE!"

The back of her skull hits the car's hood like a football, accompanied with a vicious snapping of her neck. Inside her skull her brain ripples like the surface of a pond. A rib punctures the meat of her lungs, as her insides start to unravel under impact. The rag doll flail of her body is disturbing to say the least.

Porcelain skin is stained a hideous shade of red and Ron cannot stifle the retching sound that is currently coming out of him as her femur twig snaps in half ripping clear through her nude colored pantyhose.

Whiteness.

Darkness.

Muted.

Hush.

But oh! What is this!

Things have just grown _infinitely_ more interesting.

* * *

**A/N:** I work full-time in a Pharmaceutical lab so here is a quick guide for any readers unsure:

**Diazepam:** antianxiety, think Valium

**Amphetamine:** a psychostimulant, think Adderal

**Diphenhydramine:** antihistamine and sleep aid, think Benadryl

**Zolpidem:** sleep aid, think Ambien

**Codeine:** a powerful painkiller

And I DO NOT condone the abuse of such drugs! Baaad news kids.


	3. Chapter 3

**I AM NEITHER BREATHER OR SPEAKER**

**I AM NEITHER WALKER NOR SLEEPER**

**I AM NEITHER SISTER BROTHER SON OR DAUGHTER**

**SOLELY IN MY CHEST IS MY HEART A DROP OF WATER.**

**IAMUNDERNODISGUISE.**

**-School of Seven Bells**

* * *

"Well…well…well…"

There's a film coating her eyes as she struggles to focus on the source of the voice. _My_ voice. She can _hear _me. In fact…I can see her. Completely naked, lying on the ground.

Oh this is just too perfect. I smile. "Here we are yet again...girl to girl…"

Sweat starts to bead on her forehead. My voice wriggles into her eardrums and chews on her mind. Her eyes keep on blinking.

"The wily predator circles her...vulnerable prey...spread eagle...no where to run..."

Even in here, I can still hear her thoughts racing a mile a minute. _It just can't be. Must get up. _She wills her limbs to move, her muscles to flex, her neurons to fire. But there's nothing. No response. None but her eyeballs sliding nervously in their sockets.

"Poor little mudblood..." I offer her laughter. Mirth. She flinches at the sound. "Oh! So you _can _hear me pet! How wonderful. You must know how dreadful it is to be ignored all of the time..."

Her throat is so dry she cannot form words. Like a bullet in a gun barrel, the retort lies in wait but cannot fire.

"Might you want to yell at me? Oh dear...looks like you are quite unaware of your predicament. No doubt you are trying to move your limbs." She gazes back at me in disbelief. "Fancy seeing me here hmm? Well just where is _here_? Or are you there? Or isn't _here_ just _there_ without a _T_?" I offer.

Hermione now looks like she wants to scream. I give her my best Cheshire grin.

"Mudblood you are only existing in a state of awareness without consciousness, should you come to accept your current...situation...then perhaps you can regain control. But at the moment, the control lies with me!"

I jog gleefully around the prone young woman and try to rile her up. "I cut up your arm! I cut up your arm! You coming to get me! You can't! You can't!"

I pause for a moment, my sable hair veils my pointed face as I look at Hermione expectantly.

"Does it not bother you that you are lying on this space completely devoid of your clothes? I for one will readily admit that I enjoy the view but I know you, dear Mudblood, to be a girl of _some_ dignity."

Her eyes grew wide with shock and shame, for she could now feel the sensation of air on her exposed skin...all over her body.

"And _still _you do not arise! Foolish fool, do I need to spell it out for you? You are in a coma!" I shriek with an impatient stamping of my foot, Hermione can't help but think of me as a toddler. Poppycock. If you've been trapped here as long as I, one is entitled to untamed fits of emotion!

Slowly she can feel her lips begin to move. "Am I…Am I dead?"

"Ugh finally! I've been standing her for ages waiting for you to bloody speak...and no you are not dead...as for me...I was a guest at my own burial."

Hermione wills her body to stand but her legs still are deadweight. "So...where the hell are we then!"

"An entirely different pane of consciousness. A limbo. I myself have been trapped here for who knows how long, unable to interact with anyone. Forced to watch the world through your eyes. But look how lucky I am to have encountered young in a consciousness as weakened as yours!"

Her eyebrows crumple into a frown; her voice saturated with vexation. "Soon I shall awaken in my own bed, possibly hungover with the realization that all of this is just a terrible, terrible dream." She says to herself as though the words are a mantra.

"But of course! However there is one small detail you might want to consider Mudblood...just how does one wake up from _this_?" I spread my arms in wide sweeping gesture. All around us is whiteness. Despite the bright lights, there are no shadows. No sense of depth or perspective. "Darling you'll drive yourself mad trying to analyze this situation. Just accept it and gain back some control...or...you can always relinquish it to me...I do adore being on _top_...of things."

"For starters can you call me by my name?" The naked woman snaps.

"When I was alive, I only knew you as the _Mudblood._ There was Potter, Weasley and the Mudblood. I know you as nothing else. Pity the Dark Lord lost to the likes of you."

"My name is not mudblood."

"I'm sorry mudblood but so long as you are lying naked on the ground, I just don't see why it'd be worth my time and energy to dignify you with a name. Perhaps if you were to say, I don't know, stand up and get dressed I might not think quite so lowly of you." I say with a smirk.

The muscles of her back tense suddenly with anger. I take a moment to absently scan my painted fingernails in the most overtly irritating manner I can muster.

"Though," I continue without looking at her. "I should say my opinion of you is not nearly as low as that of Mr. Weasley. I have been known to be a bit of a voyeur in my extant years, and now, well your world is my spyglass, and that wretched Weasel cares unsurprisingly little about you."

"You bitch that isn't true. This is a dream, you're a figment of my subconscious, testing me. This is all a dream. I'll soon wake up."

She still doesn't understand it! Brightest witch my foot! "Fool! Weren't you listening earlier? All of this is indeed quite real, and your corporeal form is, in fact, lying somewhere near death completely devoid of it's soul. Think of it as a carriage parked along a busy street. The traffic behind it doesn't bother to try to move it; no that takes too much effort, they will just wait in festering anger for it to budge."

"I am really growing weary of your talking in circles. Why did my unconscious self need to be trapped inside of my mind with your spirit?" Hermione could manage to sit up but her legs still were quite stiff.

I sit next to her cross-legged, my eyes connecting with her deep brown ones. "That is quite easy. There's a connection between you and I. A cosmic one. We both were fated to play second to a powerful man, a man we both obviously loved."

"_Loved?"_ The girl sounds utterly indignant. "Honestly Bellatrix, I never loved Harry that way!"

"Of course you did, didn't the Weasel abandon you both? The two of you left alone for hours...days at a time." I crawl a little closer to her, and graze the skin of her torso with my fingernail. And something churns in the pit of my gut at the contact. Her skin…is _so_ soft. "And you sacrificed much to help him...or did you forget your _famil_y?"

Hermione blanches. For all she knew her parents were dead.

"Mum and Dad..."

"What a pity...I was so devoted I helped the Dark Lord kill my own." I grin, and Hermione is surprised to see that my teeth are pearly white. In fact I look as if the ravages of Azkaban never occurred. This is how Hermione pictures me in her mind. Young and beautiful. "We are two sides of the same galleon. Light and dark. You need me, like I need you. You don't understand the connection we share…how deep it goes." My face orbits so closely to hers, I can practically feel the vibrations of her shivering shaking the very molecules of the air.

"I won't listen to this bullshit any longer. You're lying! This is all a cruel joke!" She pushes me away from her. "I'll wake up soon, and realize this is all a nightmare. Everything you're telling me is utter bullshit!"

"Oh it totally is, but I make it sound _so_ convincing don't I!" I can't help but cry out in glee. "Dear, you truly possess the weakest constitution. I shudder to think of what you must've gone through to be this..._pathetic_."

Hermione pushes off the ground onto rickety legs. She doesn't bother to cover herself, for my eyes have already raked over every delectable inch. Her tongue rolls around behind her lips. Cotton mouthed the spongy appendage feels swollen and tough. "What I'd give for some water..."

"So make some." I stick my chin out, with a pointer finger aimed at Hermione's chest.

"But I haven't a wand!"

"We are inside your mind, play God, create it!" The stamping of my foot echoes off of walls unseen. "All that's left of you is a pile of flesh; here inside your mind…you are everything."

Who doesn't want to play god?

Hermione focuses on cleansing water, picturing it in her mind within her mind. Suddenly out of nowhere a deluge of water washes over her. The bite of cold is like a fist enclosing around her rib cage. It's completely hilarious though I can't help but feel a pang of sympathy toward the poor girl.

"Come now, be more specific!"

With a bit more focus a small glass of water materializes in her open hand, complete with a lemon slice. It's gulped in an instant, her thirst quenched.

Next order of business is a terrycloth bathrobe that hugs her tightly as she shrugs it on. And for a while there is nothing but silence.

Uncomfortable, pervasive silence.

We are standing in an empty room, with subtle architecture. Mere feet between us, the air feels thick.

"So...what now?" Hermione asks, conjuring an ornate leather chair to sit upon.

"Indeed...we wait. For either consciousness or death will take you...and I would venture to say your desire for the latter brought you here." Hermione blanches at the suggestion, only confirming my theory. "Oh how delightful, a suicidal heroine!"

"This is torture." Exacerbated fingers embed themselves into her scalp.

"How so?" I coyly ask.

"That my subconscious should be _prone_ to your company..."

"It is as I said before Granger" I suppose I don't _really _need to call her mudblood… "...you've battered your own psyche."

Pills. Yes. Anxiety. It's gripping at her even inside of this void of her comatose mind. She starts to nervously scratch at her arms.

"Quit your fidgeting girl. What's wrong with you?"

"Medications." She says. "I need to take my anxiety pill...you're going to give me an episode."

"An episode? Of what?" I pause a beat before realization blooms across my face. This girl's issues run as deep as the black lake. "It all makes sense now…you're an addict...answering all of your problems by retreating into addiction and chemicals!"

"Chemicals don't abandon me...they don't judge or fail me...besides…I have a tumor...a bloody tumor on my brain! I've had it for nearly a decade. And it's been killing me a little everyday."

"I know." I say.

"What do you mean? How!"

"Well...how do you suppose that you've been getting intense headaches whenever you're around the queen Weasel! Who has been watching over you this entire time!"

Hermione can only regard me with incredulity. "You can't be serious..."

"When I died my soul latched on to a vessel, the nearest vacancy...that tumor of yours sucked me right in...I've been with you all these years...silently watching...observing..._guiding_..." Her face regards me with utter shock. "I've been inside of you. A part of your whole for since the end of the war..."

"Bellatrix Lestrange is a tumor...my tumor."

"You make it sound so romantic my darling."

"The pet names? Why aren't you calling me mudblood or muddy or..."

"Why would I say such things about someone I care about?" The truth comes center-stage. "The lowly parasite can't worry about its host?"

Realization dawns upon her face. "The migraines…that's all you!"

"I can't help it if I find every member of the Weasel clan to be insufferable, nor can you fault me on harboring a grudge toward Molly…considering that she is the reason we're both now trapped inside of your mind."

The girl starts to pace back and forth, her gears turning a mile a minute. It's almost endearing to watch.

"So what happens now?" She asks. "I accept that I'm in a coma somewhere, and now I'm stuck inside my consciousness with you…my tumor…but what do I do? Bide my time? Endure torture? You're probably planning revenge aren't you!"

"Anything you'd like. You're the architect of this space, and I am but a lowly tenant."

* * *

**A/N:** Confused? Drop me a PM.


	4. Chapter 4

**I AM HE AS YOU ARE HE AS YOU ARE ME.**

**AND WE ARE ALL TOGETHER.**

**-the Beatles**

* * *

Suddenly everything around us bursts forth in a burst of color and shape. Like hands molding a ball of clay, our surroundings morph into that of a Hogwarts common room. Dusty red tapestries abound, gaudy red furniture. _Gryffindor._

Oh please… "Really Granger? Nostalgic for school are we?"

"I don't know Bellatrix…I haven't exactly been in a coma for long…"

"But I've moved through your dreams…and they're infinitely more interesting than sitting on our arses at bloody _Hogwarts._"

A scarlet blush blooms across her face and spreads disease-like across her exposed skin. "You've seen my…"

"More than you could imagine. I know how you still think back to our time at my sister's manor." I close the distance between up and reach out to touch her terry-clothed shoulder. Shivers travel upward and she sucks in a breath of air through her teeth. My lips orbit her ear, so close both of our flesh makes contact. "Straddling you" I linger on the S. "…girl to girl."

With a harsh shove she pushes me away and immediately we're in a darkened room…wait…we're in a _cage_. Shackles and manacles are bolted to the walls, the humidity leaving droplets of moisture to fall down chains. I look to Hermione who stands a few feet away near the entrance to this cell. "Oh darling, you just want to make me feel more comfortable don't you!"

"Since nothing is sacred here…and I am the architect of my fantasy world, I'd love a go at torturing you." She takes a step forward and my own stomach does back flips. "For once, to be the one in control." The words are spoken through tightly gritted teeth. A vein protrudes even between the grooves of her furrowed forehead.

"Oh didn't mother tell you never to play with your food before you eat it!" My feet stay firmly planted in place as she draws nearer, a wicked grin on my face.

"Mother isn't here remember?" Her open palm connects with my left cheek and I'm knocked to the floor. The meat smack of my skin on the damp floor echoes off of the walls and my body lies sprawled. Fingers embed in my scalp and she rips my head up to look at her. "Just tenderizing." She says, her fist rearing back for the next strike.

SMACK!

Warm blood dribbles down my chin, the bridge of my nose likely shattered. I stumble across the floor, blinding feeling the clammy walls. A hand palms the back of my head, fingernails digging into my head like daggers.

CRACK!

My skull is rammed against the concrete and teeth break through the skin of my lips, blood pooling around my molars. She does it a second time, leaving a stamped outline of my cheek and lips on the wall.

"That's for my arm you bitch!" She snaps. "You've scarred me both on the outside and in!" The volume is steadily rising in her shrill voice. "For years I've never been the same! You haunt me everywhere. I see you everywhere, and I feel you everywhere! You crazy bitch!"

I can't help but giggle as I turn to face her. She's breathing heavily. Lungs like balloons under her ribs about to burst. "I love it when people talk dirty to me you know…"

She throws herself at me, and we both collide with the floor. One by one, fist by fist she unloads her love on me. Her jagged knuckles shred into me until they turn raw and gnarled.

Give it to me. I can handle it.

Pain shmain. This is nothing.

Tears fall like rain as she rails on me. Bits of my teeth are probably in my esophagus by now.

And I decide that I probably deserve this. But I want this. I crave her anger.

"Why won't you fight back!" She screams through her boo-hooing.

I'd answer but it's a bit difficult to form well-thought retorts when one has a broken jaw. The punches continue to come rapid fire and the blood is now pouring down my chest into my corset.

Any more hits to my head and I'll probably die.

Oh wait…I'm already dead.

Her fists must not be enough to sate her effervescent rage. Now she's conjured a knife in her right hand.

Rip me open.

Fingers wrap around the wrist of my left arm as she yanks it rail straight. She holds the knife and stabs me bodkin-like and begins to carve enormous jagged script into my skin.

**P**

**U**

**R  
E  
B  
L  
O  
O  
D**

"Disgusting, incestuous, pureblooded freak!" She continues to carve into me. Everywhere the tip penetrates burns like battery acid. My blood seeps all over the floor of our cell. She digs so deeply, she tears through ligaments and veins with each letter. A mess.

Finally she collapses against me and we both slide to the ground, completely out of breath. Her arms snake around my waist and she hugs herself tightly against me. Blood is soaking onto her bathrobe. My blood.

"I hate you…" She's whispering between gasps. "So much…you messed me up so much…"

I stroke her hair, even though the fingers of my hand are completely red with blood. "Hush. I've been dead ten years now. All this turmoil you feel…it's entirely your own. You've been orchestrating your own self-destruction."

She recoils violently. "Stop with your poisonous words!" Her fingertips are imbedded so deeply into her ears.

Crawling toward her I snarl. "This is a prison you've built all your own. I've been trapped here, forced to watch you flounder after the war had ended. And now that we're both contained within your bloody subconscious, fool, you best do something about it!"

I couldn't fault the girl for being vulnerable. As she's clinging to me like a child does.

I have the biggest urge to stroke her hair, to tell her it will be alright but she hasn't exactly allowed my wounds to heal. My face is so painfully swollen and she's too busy wallowing in her own self-pity to notice or care.

"I suppose that now you'll throw me in some dungeon. Rape me day in and day out!" She cries.

"HERMIONE. Dearest. Who do you take me for? I do not _rape._ A woman of my stature does not stoop to such levels. Torture is an art-form. Rape is just despicable. Even _I_ have standards you know."

"And you're not harassing me. None of this makes sense. You say we're inside of my head...but you're actually dead. And I'm not..."

"Death is a mere technicality. I've seen then world through your eyes for then past ten years. Saved you from the Weasel seed for ten years."

"The headaches...the migraines..."

"Well Molly did kill me. Quite thoroughly might I add. I'm sure there was nothing to bury."

"There wasn't." She admits.

"Well see it from my perspective...I've been having a crisis of faith a decade in duration. The very blood that nourishes and sustains me now…I was trained to murder out of people!"

"And you expect me to sympathize...just like that?"

"Well...yes!"

"I'm sorry this is just too much to take in at once. If I can't have my medication, then I need to lie down."

"By all means, lie down on this cold cell floor. Have plenty of experience with that." To my surprise she curls into a ball, resting her head on my lap. "For Merlin's sake girl, make our surroundings more comfortable at least!"

The colors around us swirl and shapes begin to take form and we find ourselves in a what appears to be a teenage girls bedroom. She immediately crosses toward the small four-poster bed and hurls her body across it. How nice, taking a nap while I sit here to bleed out. I sit on the edge of her bed and stare back at her through my swollen eyes. She doesn't notice or care. So I clear my throat loudly.

"What is it?"

I gesticulate around my swollen, bloodied face and shrug expectantly. A courtesy perhaps?

She nods in exasperation and immediately I feel my wounds begin to heal and my face reform. A younger looking me is staring back through the vanity mirror across the room. I look like I'm 25 again. This is how she sees me, youthful, vibrant. Even my hair is calm in texture. My fingertips trace the contours of my face, and I find myself short of breath. Though the PUREBLOOD still remains a jagged brand across my arm.

Hermione is laying down on the bed bleary eyed watching me dissect my reflection.

"Take a picture, it'll last longer."

"Such _cynicism_, it's almost palpable..." I roll my eyes. "I look…younger."

"Well, it's harder to be afraid of something beautiful…" She murmurs, her eyes connecting with mine within the mirrors reflection.

_Beautiful._ I can't recall the last time someone bestowed that upon me. Usually that word was set aside for Cissy and Andy. Never for poor Bella. This is making me quite uncomfortable. "So tell me...is this your room?"

"Was. At least how I remember it..." she says wistfully.

Emotional artifacts are everywhere, set in frames across her bed stand and photos taped to her walls. Happier times I'm sure. Times before war.

A part of me wants to tell her things will be all right, but the time might not be just right. We're not quite reacquainted…to be honest I only knew the girl as an…abomination of sorts while I was alive. But seeing her here now, as a fully-grown woman, crumbling under the weight of her own life, I suddenly find myself faltering. I feel a sudden urge to comfort her.

I shrug it off, temporary insanity.

"Whenever I was home for holiday, I'd spend a lot of time in here. Watching the walls and ceilings perhaps hoping and wishing that somehow I'd end up back at Hogwarts or Hogsmede. Mum and Dad would throw parties and have all of their professional friends over, all of whom were muggles, and I'd stand muted unable to say anything to them. Magic was frowned upon in this house."

"Muggles simply cannot appreciate the value."

"I suppose, but a muggle is taught that magic is all illusion. Smoke and mirrors. A slight of hand." She says. "So imagine mum and dad's surprise to learn it doesn't quite work that way. If I wanted to pull a rabbit out of my arse I could. No need for props."

"And why, pray tell, would the rabbit need to be there in the first place?"

And she laughs, lightly but the smile she makes is beautiful. Rolling onto her side she hugs a pillow to her chest and snuggles into it. "That's besides the point Bella…though I'm sure you're probably considering it a torture technique."

"As tempting as that may be…I'm not exactly in the right mode to torture." I _am _trapped inside this girl's head afterall.

We sit in silence for who knows how long. Hermione looks like a corpse upon her bed, fish-eyed staring at the ceiling.

"Girl, you're already in a coma…do you insist on having another?"

"Well I retreat to here for comfort. And you're making it uncomfortable. And I'm sorry you're bored but this is _my _mind." She says. "What did you just say before? You're _just_ a tenant."

"_Right…_and that would make you the landlord. See to my needs! I'm unhappy here!"

Suddenly we appear on a busy street in the Suburbs of London. A sea of humanity rushes by us like clockwork, each person like a missile on a set trajectory. And now we walk along with them.

"You know," She says to me, stuffing her hands into the pockets of her bathrobe. "Harry and I used to wonder what it'd be like if we had our own double agent for the Order…like if you were a spy for us…perhaps half of what happened wouldn't…"

If the rolling of my eyes could produce sound, it'd be deafening. So I settle upon laughing loudly.

"What!" She sounds incredulous.

"Me? Serving the Order? Darling I haven't heard something so utterly superfluous in such a long time."

"We thought it was a possibility that you were possessed! Brainwashed even! Your hatred of all things muggle seemed comical!"

"Hermione if I divulge to you the dirty secrets of my past…what made me _me_…you'd understand why that would just never happen."

"Really? Even looking back now, after you've…died…you couldn't see that Lord Voldemort was halfway up the creek without a paddle?" She says with a giggle. It's like music.

"Hermione, look at yourself. Your own body is rejecting itself because of it's blood. Though now I accept that it might not be your fault what blood flows through your veins…"

"Right…just like I can accept the decades of inbreeding that eventually resulted in you."

"Touche." She has me there. "Now Hermione…are we just going to sit here waiting for you to wake up or are we actually going to have some fun?"

"Fun? With a psychopath?"

"_Sociopath."_ I had to correct her.

"Right. So what do you suggest?"

"Something completely daring. Lets commit a crime!"

"A crime?" She asks with an adorable tilt of her head.

"Take us to Gringotts!"


	5. Chapter 5

**FORGET ABOUT OUR MOTHERS AND OUR FRIENDS.**

**WE WERE FATED TO PRETEND.**

**-mgmt**

* * *

I've never liked Gringott's Wizarding Bank. Never.

Goblins are repugnant and loathsome little creatures. Covetous money-grubbers. Their arrogance is boundless, only superseded by their love of wealth and money.

In fact I never liked money for that matter.

Purity doesn't require a monetary value. Blood of purity was worth more than it's weight in gold and silver. Money was just an object.

That's not exactly what my father believed. Whoring out my sisters and I to the highest bidder.

Sure our family had wealth, but my pathetic excuse for parents slit the wrists of our accounts and bled them dry. Father and his gambling on Quidditch matches, Mother and her ostentatious salons.

And Cissy's brazen wardrobe alone, a small fortune.

Only when I married Rodolphus had I moved into an income bracket high enough to satisfy father. That was enough for me. There was no love between Rod and I. Just a transaction. His father was just as despicable as mine.

My childbearing hips a perfect vessel for the Lestrange seed. Rodolphus a wealthy sire.

Too bad I'm barren. Too bad Rodolphus was too hung up on men to care. People, whenever they talked about me, would comment how I must've been beautiful once…because I became so ugly later. Mother and Father would wish for a way to atone for the disaster that was I…

"Bellatrix!" Hermione's shouting at me impatiently. Got caught up in my own terrible prehistory for a minute there. I jog over to her side, and immediately she loops an arm through mine, and we begin weaving through the bustling Diagon Alley crowd.

Leaning her head she brings her lips to my ears. "So Bella, what's our quarry?"

"I think it'd be fitting to break back into my vault and return what you had stolen from me so long ago…"

"Don't be frivolous Bella." She scolds me.

Someone of significance. It has to sting. I know just the one.

"Why Harry of course." I pull her tighter against me. "Fool hasn't even given you his endorsement, so I say we acquire what's rightfully yours..."

A devil's grin grows across her pretty face. "Perfect."

She's dressed in a solid black leather cat suit that clings to her like a second skin. Highlighting and accentuating each curve of her tall slender body.

Great.

I feel just how I did when I was younger. Short and inferior.

Hermione and I walk briskly to the great fronts steps of the ostentatious temple of greed. Inside it is as quiet as a corpse. Goblins mechanically count coins and write furiously on redundant ledgers behind their gaudy golden thrones. As we walk, their beady little chary eyes follow.

A particularly gnarled goblin sits like a king at the far end of the grand foyer and he stares at us with disgust, his leather face always in a permanent scowl.

"Mrs. Lestrange…" He croaks.

"I demand to be taken to my vault." I say.

His eyes scan Hermione. Lips curl into a pseudo-snarl, his yellowed dagger teeth bared. "Why have you got a mudblood with you…you know she's not allowed back." I can feel the muscles of Hermione's forearm tense sharply at the word.

I loop the fingers of my hand through hers, taking possession of her. "How dare you refer to my _wife_ with that word."

"Your…_wife_ Madame Lestrange?"

"Yes." I say clearing my throat audibly. "My new bride…she wishes to make a deposit…at _our_ vault."

"And what of Mr. Lestrange?"

"What of him? He is…dead. And I should like to thank you for staying out of my personal affairs goblin. The vault was and is still mine."

His eyes scan her over and his brow wrinkles in thought. "I suppose it would be alright…just don't let her out of your sight. Those of impure blood are held in suspicion. Policy and regulation."

"It won't be an issue Goblin, I never let my wife out of my sights. Don't I?" I give her a wink.

Hermione gives a weak nod. To keep with appearances, I kiss her hair for reassurance. She smells of strawberry. It's wonderful.

* * *

We huddle close on the tram as it lurches forward. Hermione's fingers latch around my arm in a death grip and instantly I can feel the veins of my forearms running dry.

"Get a hold of yourself girl!"

"The last time I rode this bloody tram it wasn't a stroll in the park. And I've got a problem with...heights." She peers down into the caverns below us.

Without letting go I shove her a little, the skin of her face goes to a sickly pallor and she grips onto me even tighter. "Bella! Are you mad! Why would you do such a thing!"

Mission accomplished. I snake my free arm around her small waist and pull her next to me. It's been so long since I've touched anyone. "Hush it was just a joke dear...wanted to ease the tension a little...you're wound like a knot."

"I just want to get off this damn thing. Can't I just wish us off of it? This is my head after all!"

"While that is true, where is the fun in that? Besides, being in a coma is the perfect time for self-reflection, is it not? Face your fears while you're here."

"Right. Riding up on a rickety tram that can barely support our weight with the one Death Eater who has haunted my dreams for the past decade."

"You're my _wife_ remember? I'll keep you safe my darling."

A blush. How sweet. The goblin only huffs at us, bringing the tram to a halt next to the rusted gangway leading to my vault. We step off, and I extend my arm to Hermione once more and lead her further into the portico of the Lestrange family vault.

Our guard dragon slinks away at the sight of me. Well trained. It curls into the darkness. A few steps behind us, the goblin watches with suspicion. They are born with distrust embedded within the cellular structure of their skin.

The goblin wears a key ring on his belt, and they glitter with an enticing glint. Those lesser, who do not have a deep vault like I, must rely on something so utterly bourgeois as a key.

The goblin leads us to the grand Lestrange Vault door. The lighting here is so dim, it's almost sensual. Hermione's throat quivers under her skin; little pearls of sweat are beading at her forehead. I press against her back and bring my lips to her ear.

"Stun him…take the keys…"

"Can't I just imagine it in my hand?" She asks.

"You can certainly try my dear…but this is a memory we're reliving…when you broke into my vault, like a naughty girl with her hand caught in the biscuit tin."

She blanches. It's adorable.

Before we can react the goblin has already left us, disappearing into the depths of the caverns that surround us. Hermione looks even more nervous than before.

A sound. Several sounds. Coming from the catwalks above. Someone's been snooping in my vault. Goblets and trinkets fall forward in a brass and golden waterfall. The geminio curse had been activated by the intruders. But clearly it hasn't deterred them.

Voices grow louder, drawing nearer to where we stand and instinctively I draw my wand from out of my corset. Hermione remains rooted to the spot, paralyzed in utter fear. I can almost see the gears of her mind churning forth thousands of possible outcomes this encounter might result in.

"Hermione!" A harsh whisper forces itself from between my teeth. She still does not move, her eyes glued to the shadows emerging from the catwalk.

The trio. Harry crosses first, soaking wet, clutching the _cup_ in his covetous arms. The Weasel follows, dressed as Rodolphus would in a tattered black trench coat, also drenched. Finally a third figure approaches, tall and blonde, dressed in one of my corset/gown combinations.

The blonde tart. The faker. Hermione's face changes from fear to rage in a split second. Wand drawn she stalks closer to them. This will be rich.

Front row seats to destruction. I feel that it'd probably behoove me to step in. Stop her from doing what she's set her self out to do.

But that's just wrong. To delay the inevitable.

Ron sees her instantly. His skin goes even paler than it usually is.

"Her-her-hermione! W-w-what are you doing here? We've got the cup! The horcrux we've found it." His eyes flit toward me. His stupid mouth quivers and stutters. "Buh-buh-bellatix…" Ron's jaw hangs loose, pointer finger extended like a pistol.

"Lestrange! I should strike you down now right where you stand. For Sirius!" Harry is now screaming, racing toward us. His thin lips contort to form the curse.

But Hermione, bless her, is faster. She doesn't want to negotiate. She stands in front of me and blocks the hex Harry had airmailed to me. How sweet!

"AVADA KEDAVRA!" She screams. The Weasel flops limply forward, his head hitting against the railing with a sickening clang. And Hermione, my dear, you're a killer now.

The coquette turns to flee, but no, Hermione's got her sights set on her as well. She's dead before she reaches the door to my vault. Her corpse too has a meat slap sound that reverberates off the cavern walls.

All that's left is Harry. Standing dumbfounded. Looking like a fool. Killing isn't the worst thing you could do to someone that's harmed you.

"Hermione…" I coo. She turns to face me, the scowl on her pretty features could turn me to ice. "His key…"

It is done without a thought. No remorse. Not one ounce. The startled mudblood from my sister's manor isn't who is standing before me at the moment. She's an animal. Harry is dead before he can even beg her for life.

"Bella. Go get the key off his body." She commands me and instantly I feel my self go wet between the legs. Her unassailable intonation runs through me like a bolt of electricity. I cannot deny her after witnessing such a display of…emotion. I oblige and daintily cross toward his body.

"Accio key!" I sing, and am rewarded not only with Potter's but also the Weasel's key. I'm like a puppy happy to return a ball to its owner. Returning to Hermione's side I snake an arm around her waist, and to my delight she presses herself into me. "Care to plunder their treasure? Find what darkness they hide behind close doors my darling?" I say to her. She's close enough to kiss.

Hermione looks off into the distance and following her gaze I can see she's focused on her next target. The goblin. An intruder watching the entire encounter unfold. He's dead within seconds.

Quickly she closes the distance in a few short strides, mounting the tram.

Callously placing the sole of her boot on his stomach, he's shoved over the edge. And we watch his tiny body ricochet off of the jagged jaw of the cavern walls until it's swallowed whole by darkness. As she disposes of the body her lips are curled into a sneer. As if she stepped in dog shit.

I join her as she sets the tram to head toward the higher vaults. I lean against her, resting my head on her shoulder. "So much anger…I didn't know you had it in you Granger."

"People have a tendency to bring out the worst in me recently." She says, devoid of emotion. "Ronald Weasley is a blight. I killed him for pushing me around. Killed him for never cleaning up after himself. Killed him for cheating on me." Tears threaten to fall from her eyes.

The anger bubbles inside her.

"And what of Potter? Did he deserve the same?"

Hermione hesitates for the briefest of moments. Conflict disrupts her features. "I…I…yes. Arrogant…high and mighty. Sick of it. Being pushed down by _men._"

"_Boys._" I correct her. "Being a woman isn't just a right. It's also a benefit. Beyond that it's a blessing a man could never hope to comprehend…and it feels good doesn't it?" I ask with a whisper. "To snuff out a life as one snuffs out a candle…it's amazing that more wizards don't use the killing curse to end a mere nuisance…"

"I wouldn't know." Hermione says through the corner of her mouth. "All of this is in my head after all."

"But if there is _one_ thing I admire about muggles…when they kill each other…it's done thoroughly…with effort."

"I really don't want to have this conversation Bella…"

"You've just ended four lives without so much as a single thought…"

Her fingertips are idly playing with the laces of her boots. Clearly she's not in the mood. She sits with the tension of a bomb ready to explode.

* * *

First stop is the Weasley vault. Not expecting to find much amongst the blood-traitor's things. Rickety door clearly reflecting a hand-me-down quality. How pitiable. Hermione approaches the door and swiftly inserts the key into the lock. I watch from the distance of the tram as the door swings open.

A blast of air that reeks of mothballs blows forth. And suddenly we're both inundated; sucked into a vortex of a memory Hermione is clearly unsettled by. We're in a Gryffindor dormitory. At some point in the past.

"I'm almost there 'Mione…uh…you look beautiful in this light…" Ron gurgles between coital gasps. Younger Hermione rolls her eyes.

"What light? It's pitch dark in here!"

From our perch it's dawning on me that we've got front row seats to her first time. Hermione chews on the knuckle of her pointer finger, her eyes rapidly analyzing the situation. The two youngsters start up their awkward fleshy dance. It's disgusting.

Ronald Weasley wasn't cherishing this beautiful body below him. He was soiling it. Clumsy hands, clumsy thrusts. My gut twists painfully inside me. I look to Hermione who still has not budged, the memory leaving her paralyzed in a state of discomfiture.

We're standing in her bedroom back at Hogwarts, looming over her four-poster bed. Bodies move rigidly beneath checkered bed sheet, with poor rhythm and timing. Hermione blanches as she watches her younger self emerge from under the sheets, with a freckled and very naked Ron straddling her from on top. It's horrible. I can barely watch without choking down the bile in my gut.

I want to leave. I want her to stop this memory right away. But try as I might I can't tear her away from the macabre display of bumbling teenage lovers.

"This was my first time Bella. _This_ is who laid claim to me. This is how it happened. After a late night quidditch match. Gryffindor even lost. And for years later, I let him mount me. Have his way with me. Always on his terms. Never on mine. I can see it in my own memories, the discomfort began even here." She turns to look at me. "But at least I had a boyfriend right? _Someone_ wanted me. That had to count for something…" I'm starting to want you. I don't know why.

"But if that _something_ really counts for _nothing_…" I say. "As it so clearly does for you…what did it matter in the first place?" At that instant Ron cries out…or more so warbles and Hermione cradles her head in exasperation. "And what good did it serve you, letting him have you like this? Or did you conveniently forget how quickly he abandoned you for the next walking vagina?"

She doesn't bite back this time.

We have to leave this. We make for the door to the common room and return to the dank walls of Gringott's. Time to move on.

* * *

Harry's vault. Our prize. Hermione doesn't approach this door quite so quickly as Ron's in fear for what lies behind.

"Fitting that this entire place should present itself as a metaphor." She quips while inserting the key into the lock. "As if my own brain is trying to teach me a lesson."

"Then perhaps you should pay more attention." And we're sucked into yet another memory. And this time we're thrown into an enormous crowd.

A swarm of zealots standing outside the steps of the ministry, clamoring for Potter as though he were some deity. Ahh the memories that I was too dead to witness.

Potter, Weasel, a few people I care little for and young Hermione stand upon a platform, with Kingsley Shacklebot orating a long winded speech about trivial things that just really don't matter.

Hope. Blah, blah, blah. We will rebuild. Blah, blah, blah. Stay together. Yak yak yak. Let's all hold hands, kiss and make up. Yech. Makes me glad to be dead. Never could I tolerate such lovey-dovey bullshit.

To my left, Hermione stands stone-face and watches her younger self. Kingsely continues and introduces each person one by one as a 'hero of the light'. An entirely frivolous title that means little. Much like the term 'Death Eater', a designation I still believe was doled out too flippantly.

Like that fool Lucius. Foolish fool indeed. Being in the mere presence of the Dark Lord would cause him incontinence.

Hermione sucks in a deep breath of air as her name is spoken aloud in Kingsley's baritone voice. Harry steps up to a podium, bringing his wand to his jugular.

Another speech. Full of thanks and commentary pertaining to him not being the true hero. We're all heroes. Ugh. He wraps an appreciative arm around Ron's shoulder, tugging the redhead closer like a brother. Others draw closer around him as his speech comes to a close to uproarious applause. People push past young Hermione, who stands alone absently rubbing the _mudblood_ of her arm. Hugs and cheers are exchanged and the young brunette slinks off the stage, sucked into the abyss of adulation.

"Didn't want to join in on the festivities darling?" I ask her. Her eyes have misted over during the display.

"I remember that I couldn't shake the thought of those who died…Remus, Tonks, Fred, Colin, Dumbledore, even Snape…_you._ It just felt so wrong…to celebrate like that. Placing Harry on some sort of _throne._ It all went straight to his head. Even his children are treated like royalty. I was regarded highly simply by _proxy._ He wasn't always arrogant…" Her voice trails.

I snort. "Wasn't? I disagree. But regardless of my opinion, attention changes people…I should know…I grew up completely devoid of it…then craved it from the Dark Lord. You are the same aren't you? Now you're in need of attention to defeat my blasted sister in the election. Fighting her for it, just like I once did."

"Ugh…I don't even want to think about it…"

"Then don't." I say, tugging her away from the memory. "Let us go, this vault is worthless. Nothing but bad memories. Not valuable. Nothing you need to revisit. We'll leave this place. Though Potter may be the exalted one…we both know he wouldn't be up there if it weren't for you…as meddlesome as I may have found you in my extant years…you're…a remarkable witch."

She doesn't respond to my compliment outright. Just a slight shrug of her shoulders.

I want to comfort her. Really, you have to believe me, I do. Seeing her like this is just pathetic. She's stronger than this. To witness this memory affect her so…is just…troubling.

We return to the caverns and hear voices in the near distance. Hermione draws her wand, her hands white knuckled. A gaggle of goblins stands mere feet from us, accompanied by several burly looking security officers. Reassurance. They spot us instantly and the hexes start to fly. They descend upon us like wolves to a kill.

I duel three men at once. Killing one and maiming another within seconds. Child's play. Hermione however is hiding behind a column, looking deep in concentration.

"Some help here please!" I shout to her, but she doesn't move.

"I'm trying to _think_ us away from here! This _robbery_ is ridiculous. I want us out of here. What's wrong! Why can't we leave!" She screams back.

I form the response in my throat but am instantly struck with a slashing curse across my face. The pain is very, very real. The skin of my face is searing. "Help me Hermione!" I call out to her as reinforcements start swarming from the tramway. She doesn't budge.

Fear is gripping her. The memory takes hold of her. She has no effect whatsoever. Any grasp of the situation she no longer has. Pain explodes through me as I become overwhelmed. These figments…they might actually kill us. If they do…Hermione may never escape this coma…and as for me…well I don't even want to consider what comes with death after death. Too many metaphors.

"Hermione please!"

"STUPEFY!" Suddenly she strides forward, the bolts rapid-fire. The officers fall back leaving us with a tiny window to flee.

Pushing past them she leaps into the trap, beckoning me to her with a wave of her arm. The car lurches forward on the track and begins its ascent to the foyer. Within seconds security gives chase on broomsticks curses flying every direction.

No matter how well aimed our hexes are, more of them arrive. Goblins too, armed with pistols this time, firing at us from nearby rails. Hermione still appears focused on escaping the grips of emotion that leave us anchored here in these terrible memories. Now all targeting her with the intention to trap her here forever.

Bullets strike the axels of the tramcar, knocking the wheels clear off the track. The car is reduced to a sled. A careening sled teetering over an unending chasm. I try to shift my weight to right the car but nothing works.

"AHH!" Hermione is clutching her right shoulder tightly, blood seeping out from between her fingers. Teeth are clenched in agony, and she's leaning out of the car, oh no…she's slipping.

Diving forward I grab onto her body, struggling to hold her weight, dodge attacks and keep my own body inside the tram.

"Don't you dare give up now. Don't. You. Dare. Quash the fear! I'm not ready to lose you yet you fool!" Damnit. I can't control the tears in my own eyes. Damnit Bellatrix, now isn't the time for emotion sickness. Her eyes are boring into me, her mouth held slightly agape. Colors around us are beginning to swirl, her control slowly regained. The curses stop flying past us, the chasm turning into water.

And for the briefest of moments I feel an intense burst of wind and suddenly we're skidding across soft sand. Our bodies pressed tightly together, rolling.

She's on top of me staring back at me. Leaning ever closer, a tear plops on my cheek.

And our mouths flesh over…oh our mouths…Gods…her pillow soft mouth…we kiss. And it's a wonderful. A hungry, and desperate kiss. Anxious fingers begin a slow ascend up the slope of my stomach.

I'm falling…and I hope she is too…

* * *

**A/N:** Confused? Please drop me a PM. Consider this fic a bit of an experiment. I don't like convention so I'm trying something different here, if it isn't working let me know :P I'm well aware that from each of you, I'm asking for a leap of faith.


	6. Chapter 6

**IS IT AMNESIA?**

**AMANAEMOMNESIA?**

**MISTAKEN FOR MAGIC?**

**SILVER HOUR. SILVER HOURS.**

**BECOMING A HABIT?**

**CHASING THE RABBIT.**

**-chairlift**

* * *

Within the depths of the folds of her mind, a muggleborn renders a pureblood dumb.

She pulls away and a thin lifeline of saliva still connects us. Her eyes scan the face of her former captor. Impenetrable are the features of her face.

Soft lips purse together as she speaks slowly. "Bella, you…you _knew_ what would be in those vaults didn't you…you knew what Gringott's supposedly…represents. You wanted to see my memories didn't you? You…you voyeuristic bitch!" She pulls at my hair, violently pulling my face closer to hers. Residual stinging pulsates on my scalp when she releases me.

"Language!" I admonish her. "Well…perhaps I am a bit of a voyeur…just wanted to plumb your depths. I guess I chose the representation of your hippocampus that was most…apropos." She leans in to kiss me again.

"Intelligence. I find that sexy." She admits sheepishly. "Something I've been lacking in my real life relationship."

"Riding the railways of your limbic system?" I offer with a grin. "I know a thing or two about human anatomy…makes torturing _that _much easier. To learn the thresholds of human pain."

She ignores me. "You saved me." The three simple words sting like a slap to the face. Especially after a succession of kisses like that. "You could've let me fall. Kept me in a coma. Trapped me in my brain forever, but you saved me. Why?" The question is probing, bordering on penetration.

I can't help but blush. Don't be a fool Bellatrix, falling for a pair of pretty eyes. "I think…I think you're worth saving." The words blurt out of their own accord and instantly I'm regretting sounding like such an utter idiot.

But the cliché works. She's pressed up against me leaning forward. Offering her nape as though it were a meal. Saliva pools in my mouth and my tongue quakes behind my lips. Warmth is brewing between my legs, the very organs inside writhing in anticipation.

Sunlight peaks through the clouds of her dreamscape, reflecting in the cells of her exposed skin. My mouth has latched on to the spongy skin of her neck, her pulse against my tongue.

"Bella…" My name comes as a sigh. Her thin body fitting perfectly between my arms. I'm holding her tenderly, she feels like she could break if I drop her. I cherish the feeling of someone's flesh against mine. The salty taste of her neck under my mouth. It's overwhelming.

Her fingertips thread through my hair as my own undo the buttons and zippers of her elaborate get up. Unraveling her bit by bit. Seconds later she's following suit. Expertly unlacing my corset, freeing my breasts from their cage.

"Bella." Her teeth graze my earlobe as she speaks. "Bella…what's happening…"

"My darling…I believe they refer to this as foreplay."

"I know that…but why…why do I want you…_you_ of all people. I can't shake this inexplicable…_attraction_ to you. You're my _tumor!_" Eager fingers graze the fabric of my corset. "Stuck inside my head with my parasite for now…for real…I think...or rather…" After she butchers the English language for another moment, her wanton mouth finds mine again.

Talk is cheap. As they say.

Clothes are shed like a second skin and now that I'm holding her naked body against me, this glorious feeling I wouldn't trade for anything. My eyes trail down the wall of her taut stomach down to the apex of her legs. A slick spot glistens on my own stomach where her hips rhythmically gyrate against me. A snail trail of arousal.

Looking back up to her face, she gazes back down at me, chewing her lower lip. "You're about to claim me for real this time."

"Dearest…I intend to _taint_ you." I pull her forearm out, and bring the supple skin to my mouth. The tip of my tongue traces the brand. I nip at each of the letters.

"What of my blood? Wouldn't this be…beneath you?"

"Maybe I pity you. Perhaps I feel sorry that the Weasel, and life in general have abandoned you. Perhaps I crave the feeling of another." I admit. "It's been…so long…since anyone has wanted me…"

"And I'm a woman…"

Above us whales are flying through the sky, the crystal blue ocean water reflecting their mass like a mirror. I ignore her whine for a moment and watch the gentle giants soaring above us.

"I've always wanted to see a whale fly." Taking it upon herself to clarify the peculiar view above us. "It's a recurring dream that I've always had. Coming to this pristine place of calmness, despite any chaos that may have been happening all around me, always helped me." She admits with an adorable shrug. "To see something so enormous defy something so restricting as physics. It's comforting. Who determines which limitations that keep us grounded?"

"If this is about your blood Granger…" She kisses me furiously.

"Hush Bellatrix." Pulling away she places her pointer finger gently upon my lips. "Just for once…_hush_."

"Limitations be damned." I breathe into the supple skin of her chest. Passion is quickly overtaking us. Desire and lust flood my veins as my hands clamor to claim every delectable inch.

We immediately wrestle for dominance, our limbs threading together in impossible angles. All while our mouths are conjoined, tongues dueling with a hunger equaling a lion's. A few minutes pass and I've got her pinned beneath me. My hands press her arms deep into the sand. I feel an incredible heat radiating off of her heaving torso. She gasps for breath and smiles. Every muscle of her abdomen tenses as she sits up, wrapping her arms around me. Settling her face in the clavicle of my breasts she hisses into my skin, "Take me. Make me yours. _Claim _your mudblood."

Such submission so effortlessly given. It's almost too good to be true.

"Be careful what you wish for darling…"

Our sweat slicked bodies slide together, and I begin the long trek down her torso, nipping at the skin every few inches. She shudders beneath me as I get closer to my prize.

Her legs roll open like a book. Can't wait to read it. My hand hovers dangerously close to her throbbing opening, and she looks back at me with desperation. I tease her with a grazing of my nail, and her hips buck at the fleeting contact.

I thrust into her the moment her head lolls back upon her neck, disappearing behind her shoulders. My fingers ram inside once more with reckless abandon, not caring a moment for her limitations or…elasticity.

In.

_Out._

In.

_Out._

In.

_Out._

She's so wet, she could put out a fire. She yelps in pain, but quickly descends into a moan that drives itself directly into my core like jolt of electricity.

Let us go up-tempo a moment. 6/8 time. 120 bpm. A crescendo of moans rises from her throat.

I pump so hard the knuckles of my hand are beginning to groan their own protest, but she's so close to the edge her legs steadily rising upward on her heels. The muscles of her legs quiver in looming ecstasy.

The parabolic arch of her back defies physics as soundless lightening bolts streak across the sky with each heaving gasp.

And the orgasm explodes from her throat with volcanic force, knocking me backwards. She lunges forward, holding me down with her weight, her hot breath falling from her mouth onto me like a sensual rain. Her teeth latch onto my throbbing jugular and she bites down hard. The blood drains from my head and her hand latches on to my sex like a claw. She palms me with force, and I hear a wet sound at the contact.

It's incredible. I'm bereft of the words to adequately describe the effect she's having on me. This once timid little girl, now a rapacious animal ready to lay claim.

I cannot deny her. I am helpless. The host has turned upon its parasite.

It's been 10 years since someone has touched me. I've craved it ever since. I ride her. Cresting wave after pleasurable wave.

Her tongue blazes a white-hot trail down my body and within seconds she's face deep in me, tonguing my slit. Bullets of sweat are running down my back.

The attack on my core continues unbidden. She's bringing me to climax with the precision of a surgeon…makes me wonder where all of this knowledge of the female originated. I press the top of my foot between her legs and push upward with as much force as I can manage from my vulnerable position.

The groan she pushes into me ignites a heat deep inside. Her tongue thrusts inside and the walls wrap around the appendage like a lover. I'm not far now. She's got me under her spell. My heart a ticking time bomb ready to explode.

We have reached critical mass.

An unstoppable force, meets immovable object.

Keep your hands and arms inside at all times.

Take the best orgasm you've ever had…and magnify it. A flood of endorphins erasing any pain you've ever experienced in your entire life. Everything leading to this very moment erased with one final skilled flick of her tongue.

Pleasure. Ecstasy. Pain. Sex. Wetness.

Love?

* * *

"I hate myself for this. Wanting you." She says.

She slumbers lightly. Her head resting upon my chest rising and falling slowly. Even I cannot bring myself to disturb something so peaceful. Silent comets streak across the painted sky, and the whales continue to sing. Shame that this place isn't binding. I'd never felt so at ease.

So bizarre. And yet still so her. Deep inside the pleasure center of her mind. Things begin to make a pseudo form of sense.

Arms are wrapped around me with a tight desperation. A contended sigh escapes her lips as she attempts to snuggle even closer against me.

"Bella" She starts. She's glowing. That post-sexual glow when all you want is a cigarette. And the last thing you want is to talk.

"Mmm." I murmur.

"You've been a tourist in my head for ten years now. Though I know next to nothing about you…" She says. Here we go. "I know nothing of your past…only that you're somehow related to Sirius."

The past is mine and mine alone. A wound that has since scabbed over and healed. No need to pick it off.

"Oh please." I scoff. "You needn't remind me of my pedigree. Or of the dump I grew up in." Standing to full height I stretch my arms above my head. The vertebrae of my spine crack in three places. The sun feels wonderful on my naked skin.

"Dump?" She asks. "Didn't your family have vast wealth? Old money? Weren't all purebloods of wealth? And besides, have you always fancied women? Slept with them!"

"Questions, questions! Women…I've had plenty in my lifetime. Purity is purity regardless of gender. Though perhaps it'd seem a bit more taboo...mother would've died had she known...and though I've since abandoned my preconceived notions about magical blood, you being muggleborn far outweighs your gender in terms of offensiveness in pure circles."

"But still, you've touched me in a way that I never have been. And I crave more…"

I extend a hand and pull her to me. We walk barefoot down the beach. Colorful wildflowers bud from the ground around our feet with every step we take. The dreamscape embraces us both like an old friend. Silence surrounds us for several terse minutes. The girl looks to me expectantly every few seconds, words and queries worming behind her lips.

Finally, I indulge her. "Picture a young girl abandoned by her mother within the walls of her own home. Picture that same girl watching her parents try again and again to have a son." I say.

"How…how dreadful!"

"My mother never loved me. Or rather…I was never good enough. Father was detached enough, but she was disgusted with the mere thought of me. I was mediocre at school and always cutting class, unlike Andromeda who earned strait O's. I was never pretty enough, like Narcissa who turned the heads of so many men it's a wonder than none had broken their necks. To me, rules and limitations were meant to be broken. Anyone trying to hold me down I considered it a challenge. Anything Druella Black didn't like I made sure to go above and beyond to do. This is what attracted the Dark Lord to me. My dismissive approach toward authority."

"Well that still seems to be the case." She quips with a flourish of her hair.

"I could duel better than anyone but that was never ladylike. Even for father. But I did love my parents…somewhat. I adopted the ideals of blood purity, just because it's the dogma we were expected to believe…and eventually it turned to fanaticism in order to gain my parent's approval. They too loved the Dark Lord...too much." I admit. "Nothing I did was ever enough. There was never enough hatred toward anything impure to sate them…or the Dark Lord for that matter."

Hermione says nothing for nearly a minute. A heat is brewing in my gut over the memories, and an image of my mother's permanently scowling face, flashes in my mind. "And when I stared down my dying mother wand aimed at her heart, I realized that the part of me that had capacity to love had rotted away within."

Hermione flinches at the revelation.

I cup both of her shoulders, holding her at arm's length. "This is why, my dear, you must go back to the conscious world. Defeat my sister. Keep the Black family out of authority, they deserve none of it." I spit. Narcissa be damned. Blood be damned.

Hermione suddenly grows worried. "But what of us…I don't think I really want to leave this. Reality is a prison…" Teeth nip at my earlobe. "What if you were right? About there being a connection between us..." She leads me to a piece of driftwood and pulls me into her embrace as we sit. "Surely you must've heard of _S__emper Amor._ An inexplicable bond that exists between two people. Binding them for life. Even before they are aware that the other even exists! What if that's what we are?" She's gesticulating madly. "Despite all that we've gone through…the war, your torturing me, even your death…we were fated to be!"

"Rumor has it that Madam Puddifoot fabricated the entire theory as a means to increase clientele at her pitiful excuse for an eatery." I must avoid this conversation. Steer her away from this foolish idea. Love is not for Bellatrix.

No one ever loved Bella. No one.

"Bellatrix that isn't true and you know it. _Semper Amor_ was a theory coined by Perfectus Proudfoot the Enamored in the Twelfth century! It was well documented!"

"Of course I've heard of it! _Semper Amor_…I had to write several feet of parchment on that for Magical Theory. Made up half of it the night before it was due!" I grin but Hermione doesn't find this funny at all. I shrug my shoulders with exasperation. "Oh please. It's a bunch of rubbish. Trite. Baseless theory and explanation for couples with zero obvious compatibility. Like us. Diametrically. Opposed."

Gesturing at our tangled, very naked bodies Hermione remains unconvinced. "Zero compatibility? Really Bella? Though we may be inside of my head, I don't just throw myself at anyone. Let alone the spirit of my former torturer."

"We are just two people thrown into a unique situation with no other way to pass the time but with each other. Silly creature, I find that I quite enjoy your company and would be pleased as punch if you didn't sully this time together with foolish conjecture and supposition."

"Hmph." Brooding like an disconcerted child, Hermione crosses her arms tightly across her chest. And I can't help but peck her on the lips. I _can_ be affectionate.

And now she smiles, while nudging me in the ribs with her pointer finger. "Come let's keep walking." A beneath a sky of flying whales, along side an ocean teeming with birds that swim, nothing feels so superbly strange as sharing secrets with Hermione, girl to girl.

And it continues that way for what seems like an eternity. Talking for hours at a time, learning so much about each other. Making love under star-speckled night skies, while fantastical things happen all around us. Hermione seems so blissful, it's almost like she's intoxicated with joy.

And it all makes me feel so queer.

For once being the catalyst of happiness, rather than despair.

Our mouths are latched together once more. Cherishing the feeling of her naked form against mine. Memorizing every peak and valley. Shame that I missed out on so much in life…her musical moans. My hand spreads to cup her breast but wait…there's something wrong.

"Hermione!" Her eyes reflect my concern. I reach for her hand.

I cannot grasp air. My hands pass right through the smoke of her own. Fading into the surroundings. She's waking up. Hermione looks at me with the calm realization that the time has come.

"Bella, you'll still be here right? In…me?"

"Always darling. As long as you'll have me."

"Don't leave me." She whispers against my mouth, her lips the last piece of her anatomy to fade.

The dreamscape ripples like the surface of a pond, everything growing as translucent as she. Something on the other side is nudging her back to consciousness. Wakefulness pulling her back to the surface.

Suddenly she's back in reality. In hospital. Strapped to a gurney. Warmth radiates across her skin as one bleary eye slowly opens to focus upon several fleshy blobs swarming around her all at once. They start talking, clamoring for her.

She cannot form words to reply. Any sounds come as infantile gurgles and her battered head rolls across her shoulders. A bottle of 'Skelegrow' sits on the small table to her side. Her limbs wrapped in casts and gauze.

They swarm around her bed, and it's too difficult to take a roll call while her eyes are still struggling to focus upon light. Though the voices are recognizable.

"Mione!" shouts one Harry Potter.

"Hermione's waking!" It's incredible that the Weasel would be so daft as to show his face in this hospital.

"Oh thank Merlin!" Cries the Weasel's sister. And a few young children exhale their relief. Potter's spawn most likely.

"So it wasn't the nargles after all…" Comes an airy voice I don't quite recognize.

"She is still with us. Things will be all right…" Wait. That voice. That nasal, holier-than-thou voice. Why is _she_ there? Why? Why? **_WHY!_**

**Cissy…**

* * *

**A/N:** Yes this fic can get a bit convoluted...that's the whole point. :P And to clarify the previous chapter…think of Gringott's as the hippocampus of Hermione's brain; the part of the brain where memories are formed, and the tramways within are the pathways of the limbic system, how memories are accessed. The vaults are the deeply held memories themselves. An elaborate metaphor indeed and I do apologize for the lack of clarity!

**A/N 2: **I started using Tumblr, linkage on my profile page; so to stoke my massive ego, feel free to message me on there! I'd love to connect to other Bellamione fans. And of course I do need someone to teach me how it all works because I so hopelessly fail at it.

**A/N 3: **And perhaps you may have caught the not-so-subtle nod to my muddy-buddy PerfectPride. It's all for fun Really.


	7. Chapter 7

**IN YOU I SEE DIRTY.**

**IN YOU I COUNT STARS.**

**IN YOU I FEEL SO PRETTY.**

**IN YOU I TASTE GOD.**

**IN YOU I FEEL SO HUNGRY.**

**IN YOU I CRASH CARS.**

**WE MUST NEVER BE APART.**

**-smashing pumpkins**

* * *

This entire scene disgusts me. Fakers standing all around.

And then there's Narcissa, the biggest faker of them all. The liar.

Wanting to make something from nothing. Throughout her life Cissy turned up her nose at the philistine manner of anyone she had deemed beneath her. Our bedridden heroine is no different.

There is no way Cissy has changed in these past ten years. Always with an agenda. Her being here in this hospital room is not without motive. Perhaps to lighten her image. To butter up the others in the room. To butter up darling Hermione like a roast at dinner.

Watch as the gorgeous and elegant Narcissa Malfoy donates her precious time to those less fortunate than she. A pureblooded woman well-wishing a bedridden mudblood. Her competition.

If that doesn't garner her pity votes, I don't know what will.

Narcissa sits quietly veiled in ominous shadows as Hermione's friends surround her. The comatose girl cannot respond to them. The neural connections to her lips have not restarted yet. Even her brain is too submerged in the murkiness of coma to function.

Cissy. You bloody fiend.

Why are you here?

Anger boils within me as I see can her idly looking at the palms of her hands. Those soft hands, how I wanted to break them once, her betrayal that still burns me.

Writhing slowly through a swathe of blankets, Hermione lets out a whimper. Oh dear…I'm probably giving her a migraine. I don't care.

Cissy can't do this. She _can't_ be here. She can't punish me more than she already has.

Ron reaches with a freckled hand to grasp Hermione's own, and she jerks away at the contact. As if his ginger skin were made of pure acid.

Good girl.

Her head lulls to face him and she manages a frown, struggling to force words past her lips. Saliva dribbles out of the corner of her lips.

She gurgles at him. "Mmmget...mmway...mr from...mmm" Marionette hands swat at Ron. Surely if her fingers had the vigor to curl, she would strike him.

Indubitably. The neurons are calling for it. The reflex arc in full force, but the connections…still so weak.

"Mione come on, lets get you home." Ron says coolly, albeit tautly. Now Hermione wants to scream; I can feel it. He starts to pull her body to a sitting position, but she purposefully goes deadweight.

"I...I..." Her mouth quavers. The room's occupants draw closer, save for Cissy, to hear whatever it is she is about to say. Wincing she tries to harangue Ron; scream at him, tell him to fuck off, but Ron is quick to interject. Too quick.

"Don't struggle so much Mione." Ron says. "You'll hurt yourself. Let's get you home and get you comfortable."

Her body is screaming for her medications. For alcohol. The clammy fingers of addiction pushing her to the brink. Just the mere sight of Ron is sending a warmth into a full inferno.

"Wait a moment." Cissy_ finally_ speaks, now standing with an arm extended. "May I have a word with her?"

The Weasel looks back at my sister with utter loathing. "_Why? _Come to ask for her to forfeit the race? I can't believe they'd even let you back here. You've got some nerve _Malfoy._" Her surname is spat upon the floor.

From behind, Harry puffs out his chest, and at once he steps between the Weasel and my sister. He does owe her his life after all. "Ron. Just…back off mate. She's here to make sure Mione is OK. Just like the rest of us."

"Hmph probably here to kick her while she's down." The Weasel replies. For once I have to agree with the ginger oaf. The others back away to the far side of the room, while Cissy waits for just the right amount of privacy. Wriggling beneath her blankets, Hermione's head feels like it's on fire. I haven't been this close to my dear sister in over a decade.

She's _still_ beautiful. Even in her early 50s, she is _still _beautiful.

Narcissa kneels at Hermione's bedside, her face in line with Hermione's own.

"I know that it seems incredibly inappropriate for me to be here...but I do hope that you're all right.". She whispers.

Narcissa dabs at a stray tear now threatening to land on Hermione's skin as she sucks in a breath. "I only wish to tell you that…I know what it's like…"

What?

Hermione says nothing but waits for the clarity while Narcissa takes one of Hermione's cold hands into her own.

"Given the nature of your injuries…I've been there before…" She says.

Well, well, well. This is new. Suicide is so unlike you Cissy. Pretty and perfect Cissy.

"Thank you Cissy.". Hermione manages to burble and my sister recoils in surprise.

Something is wrong. She suddenly looks so different. So different. So...tired.

A spread hand comes to her suddenly heaving chest. "H-H-Hermione…no one has called me that since..." Cissy's eyes trail down the skin of Hermione's forearm at the _mudblood. _With trepidation, and wavering hands, Cissy's fingers encircle Hermione's slender wrist. Gently she lifts the appendage to her face.

"Bella..." Oh god Cissy what're you doing! Tenderly she kisses the scars before leaning far forward to whisper in Hermione's ear. And the girl jumps a little at the feeling of my sister's warm breath on her skin. "Hermione, I realize that no amount of apologies can atone for the _horrors _my sister put you through...but know that if there is anything I can do…don't hesitate to call on me...not as a political opponent, but as a friend."

A stray tear falls down the slope of her cheek, and lands on Hermione's face. And for the first time since she awoke, Hermione feels oddly calm.

* * *

These walls don't feel like her own. They feel more like a cage. The apartment bedroom now an alien landscape. Ron brought us here, and left us bedridden once more. Her room is awash with greeting cards. Countless well-wishes, many anonymous, at least to her. Flowers, and stuffed animals abound, she lies entrenched in a jungle of pity.

"Bella?" She calls out. "Bella…can you hear me? Are you still there?"

She knows I'm still here...and I can hear her clearly. _**Yes darling.**_She smiles broadly.

"Thank Merlin." She sighs. "I didn't want to be alone."

_**I'd never leave you darling...you know that. How are you feeling?**_

"How do you bloody think I feel? Hopped up on skelegrow...my kingdom for some Valium. Ron's probably hidden my stash somewhere. The git." She whines. Her body still desires for the drug.

_**Once you can wield a wand, you better speed up the healing process darling. You've got a debate to worry about**_ I tell her. A bit abrasively but there's some affection thrown in. She's got too much riding on this election. Cissy.

"The debate!" Hermione is incredulous. "Can't you allow me a moments rest? I've awoke from a coma, discovered that you're living inside my head. My boyfriend has been cheating on me, and as a result I tried to kill myself. I wanted to destroy myself. Allow my friends to take part in my mutual destruction. And it turned into more of an implosion."

_**But you got better**_ I offer.

"Suicide…I doubt that will sit well with the electorate Bella."

_**Not with the right spin...you want to be a politician after all. Better start acting like one.**_ If only she could see my smile.

"I jut want to sleep." She murmurs, attempting to snuggle into her pillows. "Will I see you in my dreams Bella? I find myself missing you already. I wish…you could actually touch me."

_**I've been here the whole time dearest. It's not like I've ever been anywhere else**_**. **She grins.

"Sweet dreams Bella..."

_**Sleep well darling.**_

"_Bella? _Hermione who in the bloody hell have you been talking to?" Her eyes snap open. There's an intruder.

Shit.

The Weasel now stands at the foot of their bed, his arms crossed tightly over his chest. The criminal has returned to the scene of the crime. Hermione gawks at him, her desire to harangue him, to scream at him, to _destroy_ him is boiling inside. Her rage courses through her battered body. Sudden vasodilation, her pulse racing tenfold.

But instead she says, "Nothing...must be the head trauma talking."

"You were talking to _Bella? _'Mione, you're not talking about that crazed bitch Bellatrix Lestrange are you?" His words are biting.

Hermione's head begins to throb again. "Ron...leave me please. I really don't want to talk to you."

"Mione. Who. Were. You. Talking. To?" Each word an accusation.

"I should be asking you the same. Bored of me already Ron? Taking home the recruits?" She snaps. "I feel filthy in this bed that you've desecrated not even a few nights ago. My skin is positively crawling."

His shoulders slacken in exasperation. No doubt he's been hoping to avoid this inevitable interrogation. Lips quiver on his face, his throat quaking, several attempts to formulate the proper excuse. Hermione's head burns.

"Let me guess. A project? A team effort?" She retorts and he recoils with the movements of being slapped. On weakened arms she struggles to sit up. "I'm not stupid Ron. I _heard_ it. Saw her with you throat deep." She waits a beat, and he says nothing. "_Who is she_?"

Cornered, he cannot lie his way out of this. "Gabrielle..."

"_Delacour!"_ And Ron buries his face inn his palms, guilty as charged. "I-I-I cannot believe this. After all these years Ron…how long has this been going on!"

"And how do you think I feel about all this!" Now it is his turn. "Did you ever stop for once during your busy schedule to consider my needs Hermione! You're never home anymore. Always working. Only to come home drunk. Or high. Taking pills all the time. Don't think I don't know what you've been doing this time. You've changed." A crescendo, every vein in his throat is engorged, his neck looking like the shaft of an erect penis. How fitting, I always considered him to be a dick.

"RON!" Hermione finally screams. "I tried to kill myself. I wanted to die. And somehow you've overlooked that fact while you're in here accusing me of being a bad person!" He stumbles back a few feet in surprise.

"Narcissa. Malfoy." She's invoking the name of my bloody sister now through a deluge of fat tears. "A woman I barely know. _My opponent. Narcissa_, had the most words of kindness to offer me. The most sincerity. You don't care at all. Don't lie to me. As soon as I'm well I'm out of here. Keep this place. I'd rather burn it to the ground. Keep everything. I'm done."

"Narcissa! She's a snake. She's trying to soften you up!" He says while storming toward the door.

"Funny; she shows compassion with more tact than you!"

The only response is a slammed door.

Paper cuts through the tender skin of her finger with the precision of a scalpel. She yelps in pain and nurses the bleeding digit in her mouth. Suckling on it with a childlike desperation, the salty taste of her own mortality floods her mouth.

It has been nearly 10 hours, and the stack of completed work is meager at best.

She struggles. The move back to her parents old home, exhausted her.

And I cannot help but pity her as she flounders through the countless calls and letters. Many of which offer words of encouragement to seek help…rather than pledges of support. Her thoughts swarm like angry bees, all of which exude an unrelenting frustration.

The letters offer her no comfort: Suicide is a terrible thing. You have so much to live for. There are avenues for help.

All empty meaningless words. Every letter, every pen stroke a way to make the sender feel righteous. Like they're doing her some sort of service.

Hermione Granger, age 30 is a head case.

She visits me in her dreams. She's discovered how. And our bodies move in unison. She awakens each morning with dampened sheets and a hand beneath her panties, but it doesn't seem to bother her.

All of it a reminder that there's someone that wants her.

But then there's Narcissa. Bloody Narcissa.

Always looming somewhere in her thoughts is the image of my sister and it bothers me to the highest degree.

Narcissa's empty words of kindness stick to Hermione's emotions like a leech, and often she thinks of my sister. Bordering on _longing. _Coming close to contacting her, but always shying away at the last moment.

Whatever my sister is plotting is working so far. Hermione has even become misty-eyed at the thought of my sister's words.

This is not right. My sister deserves no adulation. Nothing. Nothing at all.

And oh! It hits me. Tarnish her. Drag Narcissa down.

_Hermione darling?_ I ask.

"A little busy right now Bella…what's wrong?" She says while gnawing on the tip of her pen.

_**Perhaps you should contact Cissy…**_

"But…you didn't you find her caring for me to be a bit odd? Wouldn't that look…_bad?_"

_**But when have you been one to care about appearances darling. Cissy was kind enough to visit your bedside, perhaps it'd behoove you to thank her…**_

And our heroine is thinking on the matter. But beneath it all, there's another motive. Cissy has caused me enough pain. Hermione has experienced enough pain.

Though pain makes for strange allies...and I remember.

* * *

_There's blood everywhere. Lightheaded I'm dragging myself through the front door and my head is positively throbbing. _

_"Bella!" Cissy sprints down the stairs and skids to a halt by my side. My blood slicked hand can't keep a grip on the table leg I'm trying to prop myself up with. Feet slip on the mess I've left on the floorboards._

_My humerus has broken the skin, its snapped clear in half. A beautiful compound fracture. Skin torn wide open. You'd think that I'd splinched...but no that'd be too gracious. _

_Tonight, this was my punishment. He was upset with me._

_He had asked me what went wrong. How the Order got away. How could I have been so blind. It wasn't my fault to be truly honest. The others are worthless. Lucius and the others stood there, wetting themselves. And the dark lord chose me._

_First I was beaten. _

_Second I was strangled to the brink of unconsciousness. _

_Finally I was thrown from the roof of our house, my wand flung from my hand mid-flight. _

_Lucky that a gnarled tree below broke my fall by hooking my elbow on a branch, and like the twigs I had crashed through, my arm snapped in two. The pain came as an explosion as my body fell the final feet to the ground. Sticky red puddles are seeping out of me into the already damp floor. But the blood won't stop._

_My cries for help come as more of a croak as Narcissa conjures a dowel and bandages._

_Andromeda is huddled in a nearby reading chair, her face masked behind loose hair, she is sobbing and rocking herself back and forth like a sex crime victim. _

_She is no victim. But it still pains me to see her lovely face go so raw with tears._

_Narcissa is wrapping the bandage around my arm. "Just hold on, I can stop the bleeding...just please stay awake Bella...please." She begins to make a crude tourniquet, twisting the dowel as fast as she can until it begins to pull on my skin. Tucking it closed, she moves to remove my corset, where I've been impaled by a branch. _

_There's a bit of me dripping off of the tips of it. _

_"Cissy..." I call to her once more, my bloodied fingers snaking under the collar of her blouse, and I tug her face closer to mine. I can see that her eyes are wet and soft. "Come with me... Andy too...we'll flee. Leave England. Start a new life...together..."_

_She's too busy stopping a wound in my stomach._

_"Escape to a place that's all our own." I grunt as she applies sudden force to extract the branch from me. She's painted red with my blood._

_"Bella you know I can't...I have Lucius...and little Draco to think about. There's just too much going on..." She whispers. My heart is ticking._

_My head rolls to look toward Andromeda, still in the throes of terror. Fingers wedged between her teeth, muffling the sobs from deep in her throat. _

_What she witnessed out on the rooftop is a bit...unsettling. Above us the Dark Lord paces back and forth, still furious for my failures. Trying to catch the Potters. Getting into a duel with the Aurors. Getting several of our allies killed. Overdoing it. Being overzealous. Always going above and beyond. _

_Lucius, the tattler. Called upon the Dark Lord to tell him of my error. I was summoned to Malfoy Manor, and lovingly reprimanded atop the roof. And Cissy, she called my sister._

_Andromeda, up to her neck in the Order…she still keeps my whereabouts secret. Still a Black, even to the end._

_"What am I to do with them?" Narcissa presses me. "What would you like Andy to do with Nymphadora and Ted? And since when do you care...Andy was cast out...lest you have forgotten that fact. She came here as soon as I contacted her. I knew He would hurt you."_

_"It was Ted's fault. For lying to Andromeda. Duping her with his filthy blood. Coercing her into making a child. Shame she had to be cast out…but I still love her. I love you. Both of you. Those foolish mongrel husbands do not deserve you. What you both have with them is not love. I do not love Rodolphus, nor he me. He is still up on that rooftop. And look who is tending to my wounds." I breathe. "Cissy. Come away with me."_

_Now Narcissa begins to cry. "Bella…with you there would be nothing but danger at every turn. The Dark Lord...he just threw you off the top of a roof. Bellatrix I think you're getting in too deep." _

_All three syllables this time. She only calls me Bellatrix when she's upset with me._

_"The world he will forge will be good for us...that is why I follow him." I reason. Her fingers penetrate the wound in my gut, pulling loose a few pieces of wood and leaves. The pain is unbearable. Now my eyes glass over with tears. "I care only for you and Andy." My fingertips gently trace the curves of her lips. A little blood lingers._

_"Bella...Andy and I...I don't think we can continue to love you the way that you want us to...we're not that young anymore...and besides..." Her head hangs low between her slacken shoulders. "It's...it's wrong."_

_"Did Lucius put you to this? The spineless mongrel." I snap and Cissy flinches._

_"No!" Andromeda adds. "And neither has Ted said anything...it's our secret still." Andromeda stands from her chair and crosses the short distance between us with calculated strides. "I've missed you so, so much Bella my love...but Cissy is right..." She too, falls to her knees by my side and leans forward to kiss the corner of my mouth. She brings my bloodied hand to her chest, and I feel her heart flutter beneath. _

_"We do love you Bella..." Andy says softly. "But you are suggesting a path...that we cannot follow." Narcissa now clings to Andromeda tightly, burrowing her face into Andy's auburn hair. Andromeda's free hand embeds itself in Cissy's flaxen hair._

_"But I am a Death Eater! The first woman the Dark Lord has let into his ranks, and not even Lucius can claim the same. I shall keep you both safe..." I say with conviction. I mean every word. Even my blood traitor sister. I'll rescue her. _

_My two sisters, entangled in each other's arms say nothing for an ephemeral eternity, and they stare at me wide-eyed through tears. The deafening silence punctuated by our breathing. Andy finally speaks. "How can we hold to such grand promises Bella…when you cannot keep yourself safe?" _

Cissy. She won't hurt me again. Oh no. She has made this personal.

And now here inside of Hermione…the poor girl, slumping over her desk with exhaustion, her eyelids closing. The poor sweet thing doesn't realize…

I've metastasized.

* * *

**A/N:** Apologies.

**A/N 2:** And yes...it's heading there.


End file.
